


Miracles

by Zoadgo



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, In The Flesh!AU, Zombie!Clarke, zombie!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 11:18:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2189682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoadgo/pseuds/Zoadgo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dead rose and devoured the living, mindless in their violence. The living gave them their minds back, and now Clarke is being released into the world again. But what is she supposed to do, when she's been told that no one will claim responsibility for her?</p>
<p>Set in the universe of <i>In the Flesh.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Miracles

“It may take time to adjust, but you’re ready for this, Clarke.” The doctor smiles at her reassuringly, and Clarke could almost believe he cares if she hadn’t just seen him glance down at the file in his hands to figure out what her name is.

“Thanks, doc.” She gives him a tight smile in return, careful not to distort her features too much. It’s difficult, learning how to control your muscles when you can’t feel anything anymore. She has a femur that’s held together by metal rods because she had tensed a muscle too much and snapped in when she was learning how to walk properly again. Goodbye airplanes, try explaining that one to the security guards.

Clarke breathes in deeply, because it feels right, more than because she needs it. All around her, awkward reunions are taking place. People she’s come to know and care for, over the last few months, are reuniting with their loved ones from a previous life. A few parents embrace their children as if nothing had changed, but most of them opt for a handshake, if that. Clarke would kill for an awkward grasp of hands, or even just seeing her family again.

But no one stands in front of Clarke. It’s her own fault, she knows that. Well, the doctors tell her it’s not her fault, because she did what she did in her untreated state. Her group therapy mates told her it wasn’t her fault, she’d have died otherwise. Regardless, Clarke is the reason her mother, father-in-law, and unborn baby brother are no longer alive. She tries not to think of it, knowing it’ll cause a flashback. The doctors say they’re healthy, the memories, and it makes Clarke wish she was ill.

_“Clarke? Oh, my sweet baby girl.” Her mother cries and lets her inside the house. Marcus stands up from his place on the sofa, a hand rising to covering his mouth in shock._

Clarke closes her eyes and wills herself not to move as her senses dim. She locks her muscles in place and prepares to ride out the storm.

_All Clarke smells is meat. Meat that she needs to consume now. The hunger rises in her, an animal in its own right. Her and the hunger move as one, with a snarl and gnashing teeth. Abigail falls first, still crying and smiling. Marcus goes for a weapon, but Clarke lunges. He puts up more of a fight than her mother had, but Clarke’s strength is unrestrained. All mental limitations of what she can do with her body without damaging it are gone. Damage doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is getting food._

_Her fingers rip flesh, and she eats. She eats and eats and eats, trying to satiate an appetite that knows no bounds. When there’s nothing left that she wants, she leaves the house, the corpses, her family, and wanders into the night._

Full awareness of her surroundings returns to Clarke, and she opens her eyes. No one noticed, or no one cared. Either way, Clarke mentally sighs in relief and readjusts her grip on the plastic bag that contains her few belongings. Contact lenses, cover up mousse, some clothes that the center provided for her, considering she has no idea where her stuff would be. She holds tight to it and steps forward, out into the light.

She doesn’t pause to enjoy the sunlight on her skin or allow her eyes to adjust. The blue contact lenses dull her vision anyway, and she can’t feel the sunlight any more than she can feel the hole in the back of her neck. She merely trudges on, heading for a destination that she doesn’t know yet.

“Hold up.” A guard raises his arm in front of her, barring her path.

“What’s this about?” Clarke stares down the clearly uncomfortable guard. ‘Jordan’ his name tag says. “It’s my release date, Jordan, I’m allowed to leave here.”

“Uh, just Jasper will do, still haven’t got used to the last name thing. It’s because you’re alone, I have to administer a tracking device to anyone who doesn’t have a responsible party willing to claim them.” He holds up a disturbingly large gun with a chip attached to the end of it and gives her a rueful smile, “Sorry.”

“Seriously, a tracker? I’m still a human, I still have my rights. This is bullshit!” Clarke spits, readying herself to go on a rant before Jasper cuts her off.

“It’ll only be activated if you fail to report to a station for your daily dose. And if someone, uh, not a PDS sufferer, is willing to claim responsibility for you, it’ll be removed.” He shifts awkwardly, and Clarke takes a deep breath to calm down. It’s still bullshit, but she’ll get no where by yelling at him. Hell, she might even get herself readmitted as a non-compliant.

“Fine.” Clarke thrusts her arm out and watches him wince as the gun shoves the chip under her skin. That rough incision will never heal, she’ll have to stitch it up and make sure she doesn’t rip it further. Just one more thing to keep in mind every waking second of the day.

“You’re good to go now.” He gives her a small smile and steps to the side, allowing Clarke to continue on her journey.

She was the first to leave the rehabilitation center, but soon all of her group mates pass her by in cars with their families. She tries not to be jealous, but it’s hard not to. Even if their families are ashamed of them, at least they have families. Clarke doesn’t even know where she’ll go, what she can do to start a new life.

Her feet carry her on tirelessly. Eventually she will need to rest, Nortriptyline makes you tired eventually. But until that point, her muscles won’t weaken. Lactic acid is absent from her system, so Clarke breaks into a jog. She used to love running, waking up at six in the morning and letting her muscles stretch and burn delightfully, returning home to make breakfast before anyone else woke up. Now, much like everything else in her non-life, it’s… disappointing.

She continues jogging, though, if only for the fact that she has to get to a city with a treatment center before this time tomorrow. As she jogs, the barren surroundings and wire fences of the rehab center fade away, and trees begin to thicken and grow into a forest around her. Although the joy she once held in life was gone, Clarke begins to feel a sort of peace. She gazes through the trees, spotting squirrels and birds and rabbits. A faint smile tugs at her lips, because instead of wanting to eat them, Clarke wants to draw.

She shakes her head and focuses her gaze back on the road. She hasn’t drawn since before the Rising, before her death. It was always just another thing to relearn, and not high on the list when things like breathing and speaking were there. Her fingers itch for a pencil that they no longer know how to hold, but it sparks an idea in Clarke.

She doesn’t need to eat or drink anymore, can’t, actually. So what’s to stop her from dedicating her life to art? She can easily live on the streets, the elements don’t bother her. The government pays for her shots. She could learn how to draw again, and try to capture the beauty of a world that she almost ruined. 

Clarke begins to sketch designs against her arm with a fingertip, the simplest shapes just to remember what they are. A circle, a square, a triangle. She joins them together, traces a stickman. Her feet keep moving on autopilot, carrying her along the road until she looks up and finds herself in a city. A city she knows.

She looks around at the houses, so familiar to her. There’s a boarded up one down the street, a for-sale sign in front of it. Her parents used to live there, and she would go over for dinner almost every night. She said it was because she was too lazy to cook, but they all knew that wasn’t true. Clarke knows what house she’ll be in front of. She knows, but she doesn’t want to look.

It looks just the same as every other house on the street, but she’s afraid of this one. Because this is _her_ home. She lived there, when she was alive. Her feet carry her up familiar stone steps, and she steps carefully to avoid the loose panel. It had been broken during a crazy party, and she’d been meaning to fix it for years. It’s probably still broken.

Then Clarke is standing in front of the door. She doesn’t know who lives there, but she can’t turn away. She has to know what’s become of the place that was once her sanctuary from the world. She’s careful to not hit too hard as she knocks on the door. In the seconds that Clarke waits for the door to open, she realizes she has no explanation for why she’s there. Panic, or as near as she can experience, sets in, and she turns to flee before anyone answers.

But then the creak of the door stops her, when it’s accompanied by a deep voice that’s as familiar to Clarke as her own. “Hello?”

Clarke sees a tear fall onto her hand. How strange is it, that they can still cry? She rubs at her eyes for a second and tries on a smile before turning around.

“Hey, Bell.” Clarke forces herself not to look away. She waits for the disgust to set in. Surely he’ll hate her, otherwise he would have been there to pick her up today. Clarke had thought and hoped he was dead. It would have been better than this, better than knowing her husband hates her very existence.

“Clarke.” Bellamy’s voice is strained, and Clarke can’t read his face. “You were dead.”

“Still am, technically.” He lets out a small laugh, and Clarke is confused. Why isn’t he shouting, chasing her away?

“Of course you would still be correcting me, even now.” He looks at her for a moment longer, and Clarke sees tears in his eyes. Then his arms are around her, wrapping her in a hug she wishes more than anything in the universe that she could feel. She’s still for a moment, then her arms wrap around the familiar contours of his body. They cry together, out of pain, joy, and confusion. The tears stop after a while, but they still hold onto each other.

“Bell, why weren’t you there? I thought-” Bellamy shakes his head against her shoulder where it still rests.

“I didn’t know.” How could he not know?

“They said they couldn’t find anyone named Bellamy Blake who was willing to take responsibility for me.”

He laughs into her neck. “That might be because I’m not a Blake anymore. After you… after you left, I needed to do something to remember you. I thought about a tattoo, but you know how I am with needles.”

Clarke lets out a little huff of laughter at that. She’d always had to hold his hand and sing to him in order to get him to calm down enough for a flu shot, she can’t imagine him getting a tattoo.

“So I took your name. I’d intended to, after the wedding, but you know how busy we got. And… it just seemed right.”

She smiles and threads her fingers through his hair, remembering what it felt like all those years ago. She regretfully pulls out of his grasp, realizing that they probably look quite strange to any neighbours watching. Although hugging on the doorstep would be the least strange thing about them.

“Well then, Bellamy _Griffin_ , would you be willing to take responsibility for me?” She likes the sound of their names together. It sounds right.

“Of course.” Bellamy’s smile is the most beautiful thing, and Clarke wonders how she ever thought he would reject her. She pulls his head down and presses the lightest of kisses to his lips, not feeling anything but enjoying it all the same. She smiles against his lips, knowing exactly how rough they are even without sensation. Bellamy is one thing in her life that stays the same, no matter what.

She pushes past him, into a house that hasn’t changed at all. She smiles at the pictures on the walls, for once not thinking about how much to contract her facial muscles to produce the correct expression. She turns back to the man in the doorway, who is looking at her as if she’s the most wonderful miracle to have ever graced the Earth.

“First thing in the morning, we’re going to the PDS station and you’re taking responsibility for me. But for now, I feel like we have a lot of catching up to do. So come on.” She holds her hand out to him, and he takes it with a boyish grin on his face.

“If by catching up, you mean watching _Jersey Shore:Shark Attack_ and all of the _Sharknado_ movies in one night, I agree.” Clarke laughs and walks them into the living room, settling on the couch. One day, they will talk about what happened, but that doesn’t have to be today. Today is a day for loved ones found again, and hope renewed.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so I wrote something! I have so many things on the go, I should seriously stop writing new things, omg. Anyway, I just watched all of _In the Flesh_ and this felt appropriate! It also fills [this prompt](http://bellarkewritersnetwork.tumblr.com/post/92385363810/prompt-clarke-you-were-dead) again, so there's that. Thanks to the sleepily philosophical [coldsaturn](http://coldsaturn.tumblr.com) for editing!
> 
> As always, I love talking to you guys [on tumblr](http://randommaces.tumblr.com)! Thanks for commenting/viewing/leaving kudos <3


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